Cold Feet (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Karen Pullen

  But it wasn’t working; she felt panic in her gut, rising into her chest. She went into her painting room and rummaged in the closet until she found a blank canvas. A dark blue background, a face outlined in black. A child in a yellow dress, holding a doll. Broad strokes suggested the cloth, the feet, the hair. Highlights of white, shadows of dark umber. She always spent the most time on the eyes. These eyes were sea-green and sunken, the skin red with greenish undertone. This child was Stella, this child was Grace. She painted until she felt wobbly. Her eyes were dry as corks. She picked up Stella’s purse and took it to her bedroom. Clutching it to her chest, she lay down. Stella be well, Fern said to herself, over and over. Her heart beat, too fast, and the terror of what-ifs lurked at the edges of her consciousness. She stared at the ceiling.

  Fern dreamt she lost a baby, a miniature one no bigger than a fingernail. She’d put it down somewhere, couldn’t remember exactly. Someone might’ve stepped on it or vacuumed it up. Or dropped it into the sink, or swept it under the rug. She couldn’t see someone so small because everything was fuzzy and she couldn’t find her glasses. She heard it crying, that hiccupping cry of the newborn. People walked around her house ignoring the crying. She tried to tell them to get out but she couldn’t make a sound.

  She awoke awash in sadness, sweating, the room over-warm from the late afternoon sun. Stella’s purse had fallen to the floor, spilling its contents—the familiar red wallet, a notebook, lip balm, pens. A charm bracelet in a plastic bag. She couldn’t bear to think about Stella and what she might be enduring.

  She looked at the clock—it was almost five in the afternoon. From the living room just outside her door she heard Bebe speak to Oliver in a low voice. It was a comfort to have someone else in the house, some company to give her something to do. Perhaps Oliver would like a donkey ride. Bebe could drive her to Stella’s house to get Merle. Do something to make time pass, to help her endure the wait.

  She found Oliver kneeling at the coffee table, drawing with her colored pencils on the back of an envelope. “I’m coloring,” he said. “I’m being quiet.”

  “You’re being wonderful. Where’s Mommy?”

  He pointed to the front door with a green pencil, without taking his eyes from his picture.

  Outside, Bebe tipped a cigarette at her car and gave Fern a gap-toothed smile. “Some good fairy’s been working. Looks better than new. I thank you. Sorry I’m broke, but I used to do hair. You need a trim? In return?” Bebe said this nonchalantly, blowing a stream of smoke into the air.

  Oliver came onto the porch and held up his drawing for Fern. It showed three people figures with lumpen arms and legs. One was clearly Bebe, with a big belly. One was small—Oliver. And one had a magnificent crown of fluffy hair—yes, she needed a trim.

  “These?” Fern asked, touching the four-legged animals.

  Oliver pointed to Bill and Hillary. “Them.”

  “You have quite a talent,” Fern said. “I teach drawing, so I know. Bebe, I’d love a haircut.”

  “Bring me scissors, a mirror, and a towel?”

  Fern didn’t expect much and didn’t care. Whatever happened, her hair would grow again. She sat down on a chair on the porch and Bebe draped the towel around her neck. Fern was pleasantly surprised to find that Bebe did a fine job, sectioning carefully, taking off about an inch everywhere, scissoring into the ends for a softer line. Fern admired herself in a handheld mirror. “Very nice.”

  “Ah, well. Your hair is fantastic to work with. So thick and wavy. Stacy got her hair from you.”

  The reminder of Stella renewed Fern’s sense of urgency. No news was good news, right? Stella was alive somewhere. “You said we could go look for her? I’ll get us a quick bite to eat first. Ollie can bring the pencils.”

  “Let me fix some supper,” Bebe offered. “I’ll go see what you’ve got. You sit out here and relax.” She stubbed out the cigarette on a tree trunk and went inside.

  Ollie looked a bit pinker now that he’d had a meal and a nap. He was still scrawny but the circles under his eyes had faded. He peered through the porch balusters like they were jail bars, taking in the tree stand along the edges of the field, the donkey pen, the shed.

  “Want to go for a walk?” Fern asked, holding out her hand to him.

  They walked along a path worn by deer and the occasional fox. They saw two rabbits and a cardinal. They looked down into a groundhog hole, up at a wren’s nest. Oliver didn’t let go of her hand until they spotted a damp patch infested with rolly pollies. He squatted to study the bugs, then picked one up. When it curled into a ball, he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it.

  “Oliver! We don’t eat bugs!”

  He stuck out his bottom lip, jumped up and ran ahead of her, down the grassy path winding through the field, back toward the farmhouse. He stopped at the donkey pen and stared through the fence. Fern opened the pen’s gate, fit a bridle on Bill, and hoisted Oliver onto the donkey’s back. As she led the donkey slowly around the pen, Oliver gripped the donkey’s short mane, grinning with gleeful terror.

  The presence of the child helped to soften the hard truths of the day, and after they finished eating the spaghetti Bebe had made, she offered to drive Fern around. “I promised to show you some places Jax might be. Come on, let’s just take a ride, long as I don’t have to go in.”

  Bebe steered the station wagon down the driveway, through the jungle of towering pines. It was Sunday evening; Stella had been abducted fewer than twenty-four hours ago. It seemed like a lifetime. They stopped in Verwood at Stella’s house. Fern left Bebe and Oliver waiting in the car while she went to the back door and looked inside. There was Merle in the kitchen, tail wagging. Merle’s first priority was outdoors. Poor doggy, he’d had an accident in the hallway. Understandable—she didn’t know the last time Stella had been home to feed or walk him. Fern cleaned up the mess, found the dog food and filled his bowl. Merle devoured the chow in a noisy gobble, and Fern gave him a bit extra. He sucked it up, slurped some water and looked at her expectantly. “Come on,” she said. “You can stay with me.” She took his leash from the hook by the back door. Stella’s dog wasn’t the same as Stella, but Fern felt she was doing something, at least.

  Oliver’s expression was a mix of pleasure and alarm as Merle bounded into the back seat and gave him a big lick. Fern ordered him to lie down, Merle settled on the seat and Oliver patted his head tentatively. Bebe backed out of the driveway and headed down the highway, west.

  “There’s three places I know where Jax hangs,” Bebe said. “He’s got a house in the woods. That’s where he sells out of, ’cause he can see folks coming. I don’t much want to go there, ’cause they can see us coming!” Bebe barked a ha-ha. “There’s his ex-wife’s house up eighty-seven. She watches her grandkids and I can’t see adding a kidnapped woman to that pack.” Again the harsh ha-ha. Bebe rarely smiled or laughed, but somehow Fern trusted her the more for it. “So that leaves this house on Waters Street. Let’s swing by, take a look. You can pretend you want to buy blow.”

  Fern laughed. This time Bebe cracked a real smile, showing her horrid teeth. They sped along the highway, heading into a pink-streaked crimson sunset. Bebe soon turned onto East Waters. “There’s the place,” she said, slowing to a crawl, pointing to a cinder-block house. It sat back on the lot, elevated from the street. It had been painted yellow once, but time had weathered away much of the paint and summer’s humidity had mildewed the trim. A vacant lot on one side, a chain-link fence and overgrown shrubbery on the other. Curtains hung limply in the windows, and there were no signs of life.

  Bebe stopped the car a hundred yards further down the street. She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “Wanna go see who’s there, if they know anything?”

  Fern would do anything for Stella at this point. “Sure. What should I say?”

  “Here’s the deal.” Bebe blew a perfect smoke ring out the window. “Go to the door and check things out. If no one answers, you go around a
nd look in the windows, see what you can see.”

  “What if someone notices me?”

  “Tell ’em you’re from the city. Water department. Social worker. Make something up. Believe me, the people in this house won’t care as long as you act the part.”

  Fern knew her white hair, red sweater and blue jeans didn’t add up to the look of a city worker. “What about I say my dog’s missing?”

  “Whatever. The story they would most believe is you want to buy product.”

  Fern cleared her throat nervously, wondering what the hell she was doing. It was one thing to sit on her back porch and talk about looking for Stella; it was another thing to creep around a run-down crack house in the dark.

  “We’ll stay in the car with the dog. I gotta tell you though, if I see Jax, I’m hitting the gas pedal. Now go on. Take this so you can see.” Bebe handed Fern a lighter.

  In the few minutes since they’d parked, night had fallen, leaving the street in darkness. Fern saw very few lights; most of the houses seemed to be abandoned. The darkness offered protection as she walked down the sidewalk to the cinder-block house. Bottles, cans, and paper littered the yard. A flat of withered marigolds lay by the steps. Someone bought those, Fern thought; someone once wanted something pretty and living here.

  She knocked on the door but no one responded and she heard no signs of life. She carefully tried the doorknob—the door was unlocked. Dare she? She dared. She opened the door, flicked on the lighter, and saw a small living room, furnished with a sagging couch, a table, a television. The place stunk of mice and mildew and spoiled food.

  No lights—no sounds—the house was empty. Disappointed, she decided to take a quick look around, then get out quickly before someone noticed the light flickering through the rooms and called the police. Holding the lighter above her head, Fern walked down the hall, freezing when she heard the distinctly human moan of a person in pain. A current of sudden fear washed through her. She couldn’t tell where the noise came from. She stood very still and listened, feeling a drop of sweat trickle down her back, her breath coming too fast, the blood throbbing in her head.

  “Unh, unh.” A groan, more drawn-out this time. It came from further along the hall. Something on the floor—a pile of clothing? She stared so hard in the guttering light that her eyes hurt. She saw a shoe, a foot. Dear God, it was a body, covered by a blanket. Could it be Stella? Fern switched on an overhead light and pulled the blanket aside.

  Not Stella, but a large woman with a bloody nose, frizzy hair puffing out of a wig, smelling like a Christmas tree. She moaned and whimpered something Fern couldn’t understand.

  Fern crouched down, her hand over her mouth, wondering what to do. The woman was too big, too inert to move. A doctor was needed. She would get Bebe to call an ambulance. “I’ll be right back,” Fern said. She dashed into the living room but as she reached for the doorknob, a violent pounding on the other side of the door began. She froze against the wall as the pounding continued, insistent and demanding.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  Saturday Evening

  I hung onto the steering wheel and tried to drive. East Waters Street was empty but it took me a while to make the left turn onto Raleigh Street, looking both ways and then doing it again. My reaction time was way off. I drove very slowly, blinking constantly to keep my eyes focused. I was desperate to put some distance between me and the cinder-block house. I wanted to get back to Verwood. I wanted to hug Merle. I wanted to take a shower. I could smell myself, odors of sweat, fatigue, and dirt, but more than stink needed to be scrubbed away.

  One mile later I came to my senses, pulled into a grocery store parking lot and unclenched the steering wheel.Who should I call first? I tried Fern but she didn’t answer. I left a message. Next, I called Richard. He picked up right away. As soon as he heard my voice he interrupted me. “Stella, thank God. Are you okay?”

  Was I okay? I decided not to be too literal. “A couple of scratches. I’m okay.”

  A moment of silence. “And since last night? Explain.”

  ’Splain. I ’splained about Dana, the drugs, our tussle, my imprisonment. “I stole her car, actually.”

  “Hold on. I’m going to make another call.”

  I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, then felt a overwhelming thirst. I got out of the car, clutching the phone to my ear, and went into the grocery store. I was doing fine until vertigo zapped me and I staggered into a shelf of cat food and knocked a bunch of cans onto the floor. People stared at me with looks of pity and a woman asked if I was okay, did I need help? I thanked her and waved her away, then sat on the floor for a few minutes until the dizziness subsided. I made my way to a self-serve coffee counter, found a paper cup and a water fountain, and filled the cup. I drank and drank, all the while pressing my phone to my ear.

  Richard came back on the line.

  “Do you need a doctor?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. But I shouldn’t be driving. Perhaps I should just wait here.”

  “You’re not far from Fredricks. He’ll pick you up.” He paused for a beat. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Richard rarely reveals the existence of a caring heart under his Italian silk tie. It made me smile, for the first time in twenty-four hours.

  Within minutes, two cars pulled into the parking lot. I recognized Mo’s beat-up blue station wagon but was surprised to see Fern and Merle hopping out of it, accompanied by Bebe and a scrawny little boy. Fern threw her arms around me and I hugged her right back, inhaling her lavender scent, burying my face in her soft white hair. She’s my only living relative, after all.

  From the other car, a police cruiser, emerged Fredricks and a uniformed cop.They all started talking at once, except the child, who looked at me solemnly, studying the needle marks on my arms until I felt oddly ashamed and asked to borrow Fredricks’s jacket. Though chilly and shaky, I finally felt safe, with Merle pressed against me on one side and Fern’s soft body on the other.

  “This is Oliver,” Fern said as soon as she stopped crying.

  “He’s Bebe’s little boy.”

  I didn’t know where to start. “What are you doing here?”

  “I broke into a house that Bebe knew about, and found this woman who was hurt, then the police came busting in and called an ambulance for the woman, then someone called them and said you were here. So we followed them.”

  Bebe nodded agreeably, warily eying the cop through the smoke of her cigarette. “Glad you’re okay,” she said. Oliver clung to her leg.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, suddenly feeling dizzy. The ground tipped up and I staggered.

  Fredricks caught me. “We’re going to the hospital.” He steered me into the back of the patrol car and the cop punched on his siren and swung out of the parking lot, accelerating with an abrupt motion that didn’t help my equilibrium. I braced myself against the front seat and closed my eyes.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Frankly, you look like crap.You have two black eyes, did you know that? And your nose is . . . well, not as cute as it used to be.”

  “Dana slammed me at the rest stop.” I gave him the story. There wasn’t much to tell, really, and I didn’t want to dwell on being a captive, a victim.

  “She injected you? My God, Stella. What with?”

  “Haven’t a clue. A painkiller. Happy stuff.”

  “Why? I mean, was she trying to get you addicted?”

  “She didn’t say.” We’d reached the hospital, and Fredricks warned the cop driving the cruiser that this might take a while, but the cop said he’d hang around. Inside the emergency room, Fredricks worked some official magic and a nurse ushered us into an examining room. She offered us water and said she’d do what she could to get a doctor in, but Saturday nights were busy and she couldn’t promise much. I slid onto the table and lay back, curling onto my side.

  In the harsh fluorescent light Fredricks’s skin was gray, and black encircled
his eyes. He slumped onto a chair.

  “I don’t mind waiting here by myself,” I said. “You go home.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going nowhere.”

  “When did you find out I was gone?”

  “How about I tell the complete story. Since it looks like we have plenty of time.”

  “I’ll try to stay awake.”

  “My wine group came for dinner,” he began.

  “Right, it was the night of your special dinner.” Normally I wouldn’t be able to endure such a recital but I was feeling quite grateful to Fredricks at the moment.

  “We had drinks in the living room.”

  “The boys?” I knew Fredricks had his kids most weekends. He’d told me that a year ago his wife had left him for a stockbroker, a tennis-player with six-pack abs, a nine-to-five job, and most of his hair—attributes Fredricks lacked and his wife apparently required.

  “Very hyper from all the people. But I settled them down. Then I plated the food. Roasted squash puree topped with goat cheese and caramelized onion. Cornish game hens, with a glaze made from Riesling, currant jelly, sage, and thyme. It was beautiful.”

  “Sounds good.” Even the game hens. I was hungry.

  “I added a mound of wild rice.” Fredricks stared dreamily into the distance, remembering. “Did I tell you I painted my dining room red? Sort of a tomato soup color. Black linen place-mats, black plates, black candles. Everyone oohs and ahhs, and I pour the first wine, a Viognier. The dinner is off to a brilliant start. Then my phone rings.”

  “It’s me.”

  “You never call me at home. So I took it.”

  “I’m at the rest stop and just saw Dana.”

  “Right. Then the call drops. I called back but your voice mail picks up. So I have to think about my priorities. Were you in trouble? What could I do from Durham?”